


Thirty Thousand Hours

by Lemon Drop (quercus)



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2000-11-17
Updated: 2000-11-17
Packaged: 2017-12-04 17:39:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/713315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quercus/pseuds/Lemon%20Drop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Blair reflects.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thirty Thousand Hours

So much to remember. 

Oh, man, I had had so much to do and finals were just roaring up on me. Fucking calendars; why do they publish them anyway? Just to torture poor students with the brevity and swiftness of semesters. 

My office was a mess, too. Piles of students' papers to be graded, grades to be recorded, papers to be returned to students. A never-ending cycle, a sine wave moving as the semester progressed. Sloppy mounds of photocopied research articles, paper-clipped together. Some stuffed in manila folders, some still not read. Print-outs of papers I'd begun or outlined or was revising for publication. And library books -- oh, man. How would I ever get them all back? 

Stacks of journals, stacks of magazines, stacks of floppy disks, stacks of reference books, stacks of stacks of stacks. I pulled on my ponytail nervously as I sat in my chair surveying my domain. Shit. 

Two weeks until finals. I had two classes of fifty students each for whom I needed to finish grading their last test, revise last semester's finals, then grade them along with their final papers, each a minimum of five pages. In addition, I had my own papers to write, three of them, two only barely begun. 

Two weeks. Fourteen days. Three hundred and thirty-six hours. Of those three hundred and thirty-six, at least seventy would have to be spent sleeping; another forty-two eating, cleaning myself, and going to the bathroom. Another thirty sitting in my classes or teaching my classes. If I did nothing else, that left only one hundred and ninety-four hours to do the work. Eight days, then; really, I only had eight days to get this all done. 

Even in my adrenaline-charged exhaustion, I knew there was no fucking way. I might as well crawl under my desk and not come out. 

But of course, that wasn't a choice. It never is a choice. You just keep doing it. My mother says that's silly, that life is too short to put oneself through all this stress. Just detach with love, sweetie, she says, and then floats away. My butterfly-beautiful mother. I love her more than life itself, but I'm looking for something different than she is. I'm looking for -- 

Well, never mind. It's absurd, really. Most of my professors think I'm an idiot. I'm not sure how I got my dissertation topic approved by my committee. I've overheard speculation that I slept my way through the committee, or that I dazzled them with my bullshit, or that I know somebody who knows somebody who pulled some strings. But none of that's true. 

I did what every grad student does: I worked hard. I wrote up a killer proposal, using as a model the best proposal I could find. I researched everything, and I mean everyfuckingthing. I bullied, I shamed, I cajoled, I pleaded. I had some luck. Maybe I did dazzle them, but it wasn't with bullshit. This is the real deal, no matter how others may scoff. 

Nonetheless, I'd gotten it approved. I needed to finish this semester and then I would be through with coursework, unless I wanted to take something. All I'd register for in the spring would be my dissertation writing class, with my advisor. I'd still have to teach two classes, but the rest of the time I'd be researching and writing. 

Of course, it would really help if I could find a research subject to research, wouldn't it. 

I sighed and tugged my hair again. Maybe I should crawl under my desk, take a nap. I felt so tired, so defeated. 

Instead, I locked the door to the storeroom I used as an office and lit a few candles. Vanilla. Spread a faded woven rug Naomi had given me when I was a little boy, after she'd returned from a long trip through Mexico. Turned out all the lights and closed the blinds. Then sat, scooting into a comfortable lotus, and closed my eyes. Inhale for four; hold for two; exhale for eight. And again. And again. And again. 

When I opened my eyes, I felt significantly better, although my office looked just as bad. I blew out the candles and carefully folded up the rug, putting it away for next time. Then I literally rolled up my sleeves and got to work. 

I could do this. 

I had been finishing my master's degree when I'd met Lorraine, through her roommate, whom I'd met through a chem grad student I'd dated. Lorraine was a nurse at Cascade General. She was a lot of fun in bed; heavy on the latex, though. Snap that prophylactic and we were both rarin' to go: Pavlovian. Wow. Anyway, one long afternoon when we'd fucked ourselves silly and were too lazy to move, I'd asked her about heightened sensitivities. At first, she thought I was talking about people allergic to their environments, but eventually she realized what I'd meant. She even knew a professional wine taster, but didn't think it was genetic. Just practice, she said. 

Fuck. 

Anyway, she was fun in bed and didn't require a lot of extracurricular activities like movies or dinners, so we remained casual friends and lovers over the years. I enjoyed her company; I could talk to her about heightened senses in a way I could to few people. She'd promised to keep an eye out at the hospital for me, more out of kindness than anything else. 

Moments after I'd rolled up the Mexican rug, I got a call from Lorraine, letting me know she was faxing over some medical records. Illegal as shit, of course, even though she'd blacked out the name, but she thought this patient might be who I was looking for. 

The list of presenting complaints was astonishing: lights painfully bright; sounds agonizingly loud; able to hear things he or she shouldn't; sudden sensitivity to fabrics and soaps and lotions; food tasted too strongly; and smells produced migraines. All five senses. All five affected. 

I had to sit down. My heart was racing, my palms sweating. I wanted this so much; it couldn't be true. Nothing you want that badly comes true. I knew that. I was a grown up and I'd had my fair share of disappointments. This person was not my Holy Grail. I knew that. 

But still. I had to find out. Lorraine had included a note about a follow up visit. Tomorrow. I needed to be there. I needed to meet this person. In spite of the chaos of the last two weeks of the semester, in spite of the impossible workload I had before me, I needed to meet this person. 

The minute I saw his face, I knew. The noble lines, the sensitive features. The pain in his eyes and voice. He tried to hide his vulnerability under his anger, but he was as transparent as glass. This was a desperate man, someone afraid of losing it, of losing himself. 

I never wanted anyone as much as I wanted him. 

And so we met. I stared up at his face, a face I would grow to love, a face I would watch for every shift of emotion and thought. 

The work I did at school suddenly seemed inconsequential. I went into overdrive. Five hours of sleep seemed too much. My world narrowed into a single point: my sentinel. My Sentinel. 

The papers flew outta my hands -- grades were assigned and recorded and averaged and the semester was over. I did well, too, especially considering the circumstances. It was either the end of my world or the beginning of a brand new one. 

O brave new world, that has such people in't. 

In time, he came to know me as well as I knew him. It was usually a pleasurable process, but there was pain and some terrible losses. He broke my heart twice; I broke his twice. Words, so easy for me, didn't reach him the way a touch could. I discovered that he needed to pat me, stroke my arm, slap my back, smack the back of my head, tug on my hair. Sometimes I glowed under the warmth of his steady gaze; sometimes I froze under his anger and disappointment. Always, always, I wanted to be with him. In the same room, sitting at the same desk, leaning against him as we studied a map, a photo. 

I loved him. 

We had hotdogs in the park. Chinese food on stakeout. Popsicles. Beer and pretzels. A fancy prime rib dinner to celebrate a big break in a case. Wine a grateful victim gave us. So many nights to remember. 

Of course I fell in love with him. How could I not? My entire life I've had to take care of myself. My wonderful mother is many things, but she was so young when she had me, a child herself, really. Two kids, trying to figure it out as we went along. She always treated me as an equal, a beloved equal. I took care of her every bit as much as she took care of me. More, really. 

But Jim, my sentinel -- from the minute we met, his exasperated affection surrounded me, comforted me, protected me. So his betrayals hurt worse than any of my mother's careless omissions. And when he thought I'd betrayed him . . . There are no words to describe how I felt. Bereft, yes. Lost. Alone. And more alone than ever, because before I hadn't known the camaraderie Jim's presence in my life would bring me. I was blissful in my ignorance. Great love always results in great pain; that's a rule of life. 

* * *

One afternoon I stood on the balcony of my home, staring across the city into the harbor. Today was the last day of my life. Tomorrow I would become someone else. I'd followed my dreams and my heart and they had brought me to this place, where I would become someone else. 

Behind me, I heard Jim moving in the kitchen. Preparing dinner, I supposed, but I wasn't very hungry. This was, if anything, a time for fasting and meditation. I would never be the person I was at that moment again. I was leaving him behind. A kind of dying. 

I dropped my eyes to the street below, where years ago we'd first seen Incacha. I'd only met him a few times, for a total of no more than an hour. He'd died in my and Jim's arms, his blood on me, his last words to me. I could almost picture him standing there, smiling up at Jim, one arm raised in greeting. 

He'd passed the way of the shaman onto me, the responsibility of caring for our sentinel. I'd tried to talk to Jim about it many times, but he would always turn the conversation away from those moments. I'm not ready, was all he'd ever say. 

But it was too late. Too late. He could no more turn away than I could. Tomorrow I would be somebody else, and that person would not accept Jim's excuses. 

Finally, I left the open air and returned to the apartment. Jim looked up at me, a bit expectantly. "I'm sorry," I said softly. "I'm tired. I'm going to bed." 

He looked hurt. "It's not even six o'clock," he protested. I just shook my head and gave him half a smile. 

I undressed and curled into my bed. I could still hear Jim, muted sounds creeping through the french doors. I wanted to be with him, but I knew tonight had to be spent apart. Silent. I sent a prayer into the universe: Take care of my sentinel. Take care of Jim. Tonight I have to take care of me. 

To my surprise, I fell almost instantly asleep. I didn't wake until close to midnight. My stomach was growling and my bladder was full. I got up and peed, then got myself a bottle of water and went back to my room. 

I lit a candle. Vanilla. Then I carefully unwrapped that old Mexican rug and laid it on the floor, settling myself into full lotus. I stretched a bit, rolling my shoulders and elongating my spine, before I relaxed and closed my eyes. 

I stepped carefully over a tiny creek running across the forest floor. It was utterly silent except for the creek's Lilliputian gurgle; the ferns and mossy tree trunks absorbed all sounds. The earth beneath my feet was the mulch of pine needles decomposing and minuscule toadstools. Enormous ferns lay gracefully in my path. The air was fresh and sweet with resin. 

I came to a clearing, a glade, I suppose it would be called. Not very big, but filled with warm sunlight. Motes of dust and pine pollen floated through the light, spiraling slowly up into the sky. I stood at the edge and looked across. There I saw a man. 

He was tall and spare. He looked tired. He leaned upon an enormous broadsword. I could see his chest rise and fall in the golden light. I realized he was nude. Shamelessly I studied him, giving myself permission to look at his genitals, his penis lax as it lay across his heavy testicles. His thighs were an anatomist's dream, thickly muscled, tapering to elegant feet. 

He was Jim. 

I stayed where I was, still in the shade of the enormous pines, but his light blue eyes found me. He pushed off with the sword and walked toward me. He was tired, I could tell; his feet were dragging, and the sword seemed too heavy for him. His body was covered in sweat, his short hair matted with it. 

He reached me, stopping less than a yard away. I stared at him, from head to toe and back, before looking into his eyes. He was crying silently, tears slowly seeping down his face, into his mouth, dripping off his chin. Before I could reach out to him, he lifted the sword so it lay in his two hands, perpendicular to his body. Then he knelt before me, dropped his head, and lifted his hands, offering the sword to me. 

I stared at him. Still he wept, still he panted, silent, in silent pain, in some silent grief. I reached out and took the sword from him. It was as heavy as it looked; heavier. I raised it above my head, holding onto the hilt with both hands. I brought it down quickly and clove him in two. 

When I opened my eyes, the candle had put itself out. My bladder was full again. It was four in the morning. I cleaned up a bit and went to bed. 

* * *

I stood outside the auditorium waiting for Jim. I was a cop now. I wore a heavy blue uniform and short hair. My feet were weighted with heavy shoes, my head with an awkward hat. No one in my former life could possibly recognize me now. 

Except Jim and the rest of my friends from Major Crimes. I was waiting for them, catching some fresh air after the press of the commencement ceremony. In fact, I was a little light-headed. But I stood as straight as I could, as straight as I'd been taught, with taunts and bullying and even a few slaps during my time in the academy. This was who I was now: someone who had learned to stand and be still. 

And there they came, breaking away from the rest of the noisy crowd of parents and friends and teachers, their faces wreathed with smiles, their mouths full of witty comments at my expense. I didn't care. No, that isn't true; I did care. I cared with all my heart. I was someone else now; I was a member of this family. 

Simon was the dad, of course. He unbent enough to put his hands on my upper arms and gently shake me, smiling around that oh-so-phallic cigar he keeps in his mouth. Then Joel, an affectionate uncle, hugged me, practically lifting me off the ground. My new brothers, Henri and Rafe, slugged me fondly. My big sister Megan kissed me and hugged me. 

And then, finally, was Jim. I was pretty sure who he was to me in this family, but we needed to be alone first. I put my arms around him and hugged him; his body stiffened a tiny bit at first, almost reflexively, and then he relaxed into my embrace. I hugged harder, catching my breath as best I could. 

Then we went out for an early dinner and gallons of champagne. And all on Simon, my new captain. I called him Sir all evening; he hated that. 

As I sat listening to my friends joke and squabble and plan, I remembered that semester before I met Jim. I'd been so overwhelmed with work, and so alone. No one to remind me to go to bed. No one to remind me to eat, or to cook for me, or buy me a treat. No real home to go to. It had been such a full life and it had been such an empty life. 

I studied Jim, next to me at the large round table, now covered in empty plates and half-empty glasses. He was smiling at something H had said, nodding his head, gesturing with his wine glass. He glanced at me and then fixed his gaze on me. He smiled even broader. I felt myself blush, but didn't move. This is a new life. 

When the party ended from exhaustion and the fact that the restaurant was closing, I hugged everyone of them, even Simon, who pretended to grouse. Then I took Jim's arm and led him to the truck, pulling the keys from his front pocket. I got him into the passenger seat and buckled in; he never said a word, just studied me, a little puzzled, a little amused. 

"I'm not that drunk," he said mildly, after I started the engine. 

"I know," I told him. It's just that I was in charge tonight. I think he knew that; he settled back into the seat and watched the lights stream by the rain-spattered window. 

Once home, I unlocked the door and gestured for him to enter first. I locked up and poured us both glasses of water, then waited for him on the couch. When he came out of the bathroom and saw me, he walked straight to me and sat next to me. I turned a little, so I faced him on the couch. 

"Do you know what happened tonight?" 

"I think so. You graduated, we celebrated. Right?" 

I nodded. "But something else happened, too, Jim. Do you know what that was?" He shook his head, and then sipped his water. I waited until he put the glass down. "Commencement literally means a beginning. It's a formal rite of passage recognized by all western cultures. It has its roots in classic Greek pedagogy and has continued through all the changes in society right to today. Everyone in Major Crimes has been graduated through such a ceremony; that's one reason we feel a bond. We share this experience. 

"But one thing about a rite of passage -- the person who comes out the other side isn't the same person who went in. At my bar mitzvah, I went in a boy and came out a man. At your wedding, you went in single and came out married." 

I took a sip of water, and then another. Lecturing is thirsty work when you're no longer used to it. 

Before I could start again, Jim put his hand on my arm. "Are you saying that a commencement ceremony is parallel to a wedding ceremony?" I nodded, and he looked thoughtful, his gaze moving off me. I used that as my opportunity. 

I turned even further toward him; he automatically followed, so we were square to each other. His hand slid down my arm until we were holding hands. I brought his hand up to my mouth and kissed it, never taking my eyes of his face. He looked shocked and a little frightened; I could feel him trembling, but he never moved away. 

I scooted a little closer to him, closed my eyes to center myself, took a deep breath, and then put both my hands on him. First on his arms, then his shoulders, then down his back to his waist. Tiny beads of sweat had collected at his hairline. I spread my hands so they held him, firmly but gently, and leaned forward. 

"I'm going to kiss you," I whispered. His eyes widened, but he remained in my hands. I leaned forward a millimeter more and my put face close to his, stroking him with my cheek and nose. He smelled good. He felt good. I rested my cheek against his, enjoying the warmth and texture. Then I slowly slid back until I could see him again. I tilted my head to one side and slightly up, leaned forward again, and brushed his lips with mine. I heard him gasp and he twitched in my hands, but I held him still. 

"Ohhh," he moaned voicelessly, and I breathed him in and then kissed him. 

And that was the beginning of our new relationship. I would remember that kiss all my long life. Treasure it. Relive it again and again, but I would never exactly capture the moment, the sensation, the taste. Because when I kissed him, like a key turning in a lock, like a lever clicking onto a gear, like a button in a hole, everything changed. We fit together and would never come apart again. Maybe death will separate us; I don't know yet. But I don't think so. Not with all we've seen and done. 

When I pulled back from that kiss, he followed, like a bee to a flower, and I knew the power I had over him. He had given me the sword and I clove him in two. Before and After. There and Here. Then and Now. I was his After, his Here and Now. I was his Forever. 

So I stopped pulling away and his mouth met mine and I kissed him with all of my heart and all of my soul and all of the spirit of the universe. I touched him firmly and forcefully; he was my sentinel, after all. I sought him for so many years. Maybe my search, my desire, had somehow created him. If so, he was my creation; he was created for me. 

After a while, I took his hand again and led him upstairs. I put my hands on his body and did what I wished, while he cried out and shuddered and came against me, panting, shivering, sweating. When I saw my handiwork I smiled at him and kissed him again, stroking his beautiful body. "I love you," I told him. 

He put his hand up to my face. His eyes glowed in the starlight falling through the skylight above us. "I know," he whispered, and kissed me again. 

His mouth on mine, I remembered again how it started. In so much fear and pain and excitement. I was reborn into his arms. It was a long birth, four years long, but here I was. 

With so much to remember. 


End file.
